


You can sharpen your knife

by BryttaniDaffodil



Series: Worship Me [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryttaniDaffodil/pseuds/BryttaniDaffodil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For such a slight man, Jim's forearms were muscular. His veins stood out harshly against the paleness of his skin. Purple and blue making their way down to his hands, pumping blood into long, elegant fingers. John noticed that Jim's knuckles were the only thing that made him more similar to John than to Sherlock. Knuckles that were chipped and scarred, they told stories of old fights. Fights that looked painful and desperate. Fights that John knew down to his marrow, and could still recall the feeling of blood and crushed bone after spitting words. Words like poor, like pathetic, like spittle on his chin while defending a deadbeat father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can sharpen your knife

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wrote part two of this series! I know it took forever, but I had no clue where I wanted to take this story. After writing this, though, I know what I want from it and the general direction it will be taking. That means more writing, and faster updates!  
> I also want to thank every for all the lovely feedback I got on the first part. I can't believe so many people liked it, and it brings me great joy to continue this. Hope you enjoy this one just as much!  
> Also, there will be so much more dialogue in the next part. I just wanted to show where John was in the story, and where his feelings were at. Sherlock isn't going to be in this story much, and is honestly barely in this chapter.  
> If you have any questions, comments, or concerns please let me know! As always, kudos are appreciated.

No matter what Sherlock said, John never thought he was a stupid man. Brave, reckless, stubborn. All words that John would agree to being. Stupid, though? Not, in particular. Compared to his best friend, then of course he would never be up to par. But with the rest of society John was an intelligent man. Well, at least that was what he was trying to tell himself as Jim Moriarty followed him up the stairs to his shared flat. The one he shared with Moriarty's arch nemesis because John now knew that people actually had those.

“Second thoughts, Johnny-boy?” Jim's breath was warm on the back of his neck, but his question didn't sound all that teasing.

Taking a deep breath and pulling his shoulders back, John turned the knob and walked into his flat like he used to walk into a battlefield. There was less screaming and blood, but John figured as soon as Sherlock noticed his company that, that could be changing.

Before Sherlock could speak John cut in, “Sherlock, this is Jim. Jim is here to eat bad Chinese and watch telly with us tonight. No business talk and no shouting. I've had a long day, and I would hate to have to shoot either of you or both of you.” 

John ignored the wicked grin (Jim's) and the death look (Sherlock's) that were thrown his way. He continued into the kitchen and started pulling out plates. John started plating the food and ignored the heated whispers from behind him. 

Jim's voice finally rose to a volume that John could hear when he said, “What? Scared your pet will find a new master? Worried he is going to like me better?”

John didn't even have to turn to know what Jim would look like at that moment. Hands in his pockets, rocking back slightly with a grin on his face and eyebrows raised high in amusement. With a deep sigh, he turned and pointed his fork at the genius with the gleeful face.

“No. None of that. No pet comments and certainly no egging him on. You are going to shut it and shovel this food in your mouth and not say anything. That is the polite thing to do.” John was wondering for the hundredth time whose blood was going to be spilled on the carpet by the end of the night.

“Really, John. Bringing home the first stray to make eyes at you is disappointing, but also typical.” Sherlock finally piped up loud enough that John could hear him. Even though, it made him roll his eyes and drop a plate into his friend's hands.

“Eat, hush, and don't get any blood on the carpet.” John turned and headed towards his chair. Thinking about finally sinking into his comfortable chair made the arches of his feet ache. Actually sitting in it, though, made static shoot up his legs and settle painfully in his lower back. Sighing in relief anyways, John set his plate on his side table and tried not to be suspicious of the silence behind him. 

After a few minutes of what John guesses was a silent conversation that only brilliant madmen can have, Jim wandered over and sat across from him. His smile looked slightly more natural than the naughty grin that he'd had since he walked into 221b.

“Well done, Johnny. Not everyone can make boys like Sherlock play nice,” Jim murmured as he leaned back casually and crossed his legs at the knee. At home no matter where he was or what company he was with. The luxury of being rich and powerful, John knew.

“Dunno about Sherlock, but I can assure you that I can make you play nice,” John grumbled, all he wanted to do was eat his cooling Chinese and not have to worry about snarky commentary.

“Yes, but of course your way would be breaking your no blood in the carpet rule.” The way Jim looked delighted at the thought of his brains leaking into their flooring had John slightly worried.

For the next few minutes the only sounds in the flat were those of forks scraping against plate. (Mostly John's, of course, because fucking transport.) The silence both soothed him and caused the blonde hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Because who knew what Moriarty was reading about him or their home at the moment. Maybe he was thinking about which wall would look better with their intestines hanging up like artwork.

Shaking the morbid thoughts from his mind, he headed to the kitchen sink with his now empty plate. John couldn't think of anything less he wanted to do at that moment than a sink full of dishes, but he couldn't let them continue on. If Sherlock had any way, they would never get done and he would use the mold in one of his experiments. Trying to keep the grin off his face at the thought, John slowly turned on the water and added soap while he waited for the water to fill up.

Behind him, there was the sound of fabric and a moment of quiet before long, pale fingers were next to his. Startled, John looked up and saw Jim's suit jacket thrown on the back of a chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. John took the opportunity to take in the always covered man's arms and hands.

For such a slight man, Jim's forearms were muscular. His veins stood out harshly against the paleness of his skin. Purple and blue making their way down to his hands, pumping blood into long, elegant fingers. John noticed that Jim's knuckles were the only thing that made him more similar to John than to Sherlock. Knuckles that were chipped and scarred, they told stories of old fights. Fights that looked painful and desperate. Fights that John knew down to his marrow, and could still recall the feeling of blood and crushed bone after spitting words. Words like poor, like pathetic, like spittle on his chin while defending a deadbeat father. 

John felt closer to Jim in that moment than he had to anyone in his life. He felt a kinship of slurred words, and rigid spines. John knew what it was like to feel like he was buried alive, and had to claw his way out with no help. He knew what it was like to be small, and the only thing you had on your side was your own fists. 

“No need to stare, Johnny. I have washed a dish before in my life. Unless, maybe, you wanted to keep looking. Daddy doesn't mind.” Jim's smirk and wink made warmth flood his stomach like it did when Sherlock made a sarcastic comment just to see John smile. It was a warmth that spoke of amusement, but this time there was a twist of arousal in it. A stab of wanting that grew with every dish they washed together. 

John was lulled by the domestic chore, the sound of his best friend muttering under his breath as he worked, and the smoky smell of the man next to him. 

Yes, John thought, he always considered himself a smart man. He was always classified as intelligent, brave, reckless, and stubborn. But intelligent all the same. Standing elbow to elbow with Jim Moriarty made John feel all those things. He felt all those things, and sighed in content.


End file.
